The First Child of Gallifrey
by out.of.sea.into.woods
Summary: Gallifrey lives! Since his forgotten birth, Mal has always known this fact, whirling around his head with the face of a Timelord he's never known, but nothing more. Trapped in their pocket universe, whispers of the insidious plans of the Timelords to return to the universe are all around. In the violence of the Citadel, Mal must save his home; and this mysterious Doctor.
1. Prolouge - Lone Survivor

**Okay, guys. I have a good feeling about this. I'm a little scared, because I feel like Whovians are the most brilliant people in the world and I want to remain _as close_ to canon as I can. So, if I do something wrong, _PLEASE_ message me and tell me about it.**

**I don't own DW.**

PROLOUGE

_Lone Survivor_

The air was torn with screams and shots. Renalla cowered over the cradle, sniveling in fear as she protected her baby with her body. But nothing penetrated the ramshackle house her husband had built. Not yet, anyways. It must've been a small squabble among the gangs of the ghetto. They had become more prevalent as the war ravaged the planet, with no police to watch over them.

"Ren." Feyn's voice called and Renalla instantly looked up as he ran through the door, slamming it shut behind him quickly. Her husband's face was stained with sweat and the dust from the war, his white curls wild. There was a cut on his forehead, blood dribbling slowly down the side of his face. He came to her quickly, desperation burning in his eyes. They kissed passionately, Renalla's tears mingling in their shared love.

"Feyn." She said shakily.

"Arcadia has fallen." He didn't hesitate as his voice tripped to get out. "The Daleks are coming for the Citadel. We have to run."  
"Where?" She demanded. "Where can be safe? If Arcadia has fallen, and the war is as vast as you say..." The answer was in Feyn's hopeless face. "We are doomed, aren't we?" There was a pause, where the only noise was the cries from outside, as Gallifreyans rushed to gather their meager belongings. Most would flee to the Citadel, the last stronghold of the planet. Leaving Gallifrey was not an option. Travel outside the planet had been arduous before the war for those without a TARDIS; now, it was impossible.

"The Timelords have a plan." Feyn finally said. There was an edge to his voice. Their so-called _brothers_ had driven them to the brink of war, where they were sure to tumble into desolation.

"We are doomed," Renalla ignored him, lamenting loudly. "We are doomed, _no!_" The baby in the cradle began to cry, silencing her and gaining her attentions. Slipping off her ratty dress, she offered the babe her breast, which he accepted greedily. As the child began to suckle, it's parents were quiet as they marveled at him. He was only a few days old, not even old enough to be given a name, having only known the ravages of war.

_Now_, Renalla thought bitterly. _He will know nothing more_.

"We can run, Ren." Her husband insisted. Her nickname seemed hopelessly distant, tragic even. "We can find a place, in the mountains maybe. A place where the war won't find us." But this hope was false and they both knew it.

"Feyn," Renalla began.

"No." He said firmly. "No. We'll run. We'll live. We'll _live_, Renalla." He cupped her face delicately in his weathered hands. The war had aged her, taking the geometry of her jaw and the supple glow of her skin. Her hair, having once been a shimmering chocolate color, was dull and streaked with silver. This was her second generation, but her eyes still glowed with that beautiful spark he had come to adore. They had lived hundreds of years together, alone, but happy and safe. The curse of their people had left them barren for years, unable to afford to Loom like the Timelord families. But when the curse was lifted, they still refrained from children. It was by accident that their son was conceived, for they would never bring in a child in the horror of the Time War. Now, looking down on the innocence of his son's delicate face as he settled into sleep, Feyn felt a rush of guilt for creating the child's life.

"Come on," Feyn stood, pulling his wife to her feet. "We must get ready. Gather our things and I'll go out and get a map, we can leave tonight." Renalla's face was distant, absent, so he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. "Renalla."

"Okay." She agreed weakly. "Okay." Gently, Feyn kissed her on the forehead, her skin tasting old and dusty, before he quickly ran out of the home. Slowly, Renalla gathered their things, sparse to say the least. A few threadbare dresses, a couple shirts and pants. An old pot, a wooden spoon. They had a little money, which Renalla tucked into a secret pocket sewn into the dress she currently wore. Tucked under their bed was a small box, containing their only real treasures. Laying flat on the floor, Renalla reached under the small cot, pulling out the worn box. Opening it slowly, she smiled sadly at all the lost memories.

A glittering necklace, Feyn's mother's. An old, rust-colored leaf from the forests where they used to walk. Two tickets to a play Feyn had taken her to once. An intricate watch that had belonged to her own father, inherited from father to son, given to her because of her father's lack thereof. It was believed to have been a distant Timelord relative, though it was most likely stolen. Though scratched on the outside, the face was still clear, the hands whirling to different beats that Renalla couldn't understand. But it was dear to her father, who had been killed in the first battle of the war, so she loved it dearly.

Renalla pressed the watch to her chest, feeling it whirl against the beatings of her hearts. Not for the first time, she wished she had a TARDIS, to go to a time where the Time War was not. Where peace still had a place on Gallifrey. Where those who were not Timelords were poor, but content.

But she could not.

Renalla tied up their meager possessions, the box of treasures included, in a ratty blanket and sat by her son's cradle, waiting for Feyn. She draped her hand carelessly into the cradle, her palm loosely pressed against the head of her son.

After a while, she grew worried. Feyn had yet to return, and it was getting dark. Renalla debated leaving the house to search for him. The ghetto streets were dangerous at night, more so for a woman. But there was a weight in her hearts that told her to rise and go. And so she did, leaving her son snoozing.

Wrapping a worn shawl around her scrawny shoulders, she walked quickly along the streets, the stars watching in solemn silence. The air was foul with dust and death, making her lungs ache. Renalla rushed to the general store, only to find it close. She tried banging on the door, but no one answered. That's when she realized it:

There was no noise. No scream. No cries. Nothing. Only silence.

Renalla knew instantly that she was doomed. That Feyn was dead and so was everyone else. The fact tore at her from the inside, threatening to rip her apart. But she had to keep it together, she had to get back home. For her son. So that he would not die alone.

Renalla broke out into a run, her bare feet pounding on the dusty roads. Only a few streets away from their house, there was suddenly lights on her and she froze, stumbling to a halt.

"ALL GALLIFREYANS WILL BE EX-_TER_MINATED." The voice of Daleks surrounded her, screaming at her with shrill, horrid electric voices. The glow of their eye stalks made ominous will-o-wisps in the night.

"Please!" She screamed, falling to her knees. "Mercy, please!"

"YOU WILL BE EX-_TER_MINATED!."

"I surrender, _please_!" Tears coursed down Renalla's face. "Please, my child-"

A ghostly white beam shot at her. There was a course of wretched pain, and she fell on her face, no more.

In the ramshackle house, the child began to cry, cold and alone. It had no knowledge of what a Dalek was, what that meant to him. He was only hungry and wanted his mother. So, the child wailed.

Suddenly, there was a flash of golden light and something heavy and cold fell into the cradle, bouncing off the child's head, making him cry louder, with pain now. Slowly, though, soft golden tendrils weaved their way into the air, like magical dust. Pulse softly to the rhythm of his own heart, the babe was bemused into silence, cooing softly. The dust swirled together, making a humanoid form. The glow subsided and there was only a stranger, standing above the cot. The baby did not cry, just stared in awe.

A screeching sound sent his hair on end and he began crying again, shrill and piercing. A garish light flooded up the room. The stranger covered their eyes, quizzical. The blue of the Dalek eye pierced the dim light.

"ALL GALLIFREYANS WILL BE EX-_TER_MINATED! YOU WILL BE-"

"Scatter." The stranger said, her voice clear and strong as she held out her hand to the Dalek. There was a moment of pause, and then the Dalek's cells forgot how to be Dalek, instead opting to float in a scatter of brown dust. The child stopped crying, more out of exhaustion than submission. The stranger, her blonde hair soft in the light. Her hand stroked the cheek of the child, soft and sure.

"Don't worry." She said, her voice husky. "You'll live. And you'll find him. You'll help him." She smiled. "And you'll have to save him."

The golden light flooded the room once again, slowly and all at once. Then, there was a huge flash, blinding and exhilarating. The surrounding Daleks were vaporized by the light, leaving the town desolate. The bodies of the Gallifreyans had been gathered and were being burned, their ashes floating up into the air. The glory of the light began to fade and then there was quiet.


	2. Chapter 1 - Solitude

**I don't own Doctor Who.**

CHAPTER 1

_Solitude_

The snow is biting, slicing into me on the sharp wind. I pull my arms in tight, watching my breath snake it's way into the amber sky. The gleaming red fields are distant and blurred from this point up the mountain, but I pretend I can still see every blade of grass.

Mount Perdition is quiet, the wind stiff through the tall trees. The golden leaves have fallen, turning a depressing shade of brown as they turn into a squishy layer of earth. As I trek up the mountain side, my feet make soft noises in the muck. Behind me, a decrepit estate lays abandoned, the red fields wild and untamed. The heat of the sun bakes by back as the cold of the air makes my face stiff.

My name is Malo Lupos. My friends call me Mal; at least, they would if I haven't been living in solitary confinement for the sixteen years of my existence.

So there's that.

I watch the ground, trying to find the short, dark mushrooms that will be my dinner tonight. I spot a clump tucked against the truck of a huge tree and I kneel down, drawing my rusted knife to dig them up. My shaggy black hair gets in my eyes and I push it back with a huff of annoyance.

Behind me, past the old estate, I know the faint outline of the Citadel watches me sanctimoniously. There's an itch in my mind, the desire to look back and admire the view, the slowly rebuilt glass dome of the city, the gleaming towers and spires. I know that by the end of the War, by my birth, the city was in shambles, almost razed to the ground like Arcadia. But, since the Miracle, the Timelords have managed to rebuild it.

_How do I know this?_ I ask myself, pausing, with my hands muddy in the dirt. _How do I know they rebuilt? Arcadia? How_-

And then, I move on. The thought is squashed by something sure and unbreakable, pushing away my doubts as they have for all this time. I know these things; it does not matter how.

I dig up the mushrooms and stuff them in my patched up satchel. Having already collected an assortment of nuts and berries, I walk down the mountain to my cave. It's high enough up to avoid trespassers, but low enough to avoid the blistering cold of the mountain.

After a few minutes, I find my cave, a small, inconspicuous hole in the ground that opens up into a large little cavern, dry and neat. I lower my legs down first, falling for a moment, and land on my feet. The cave is warm and homey, with a cot in the corner made of branches and leaves. A small fireplace, with a shaft to remove the smoke. Nothing else, but there's nothing else I need for my life here.

It's been like this since forever. Living on this mountain, in this hole. Every day, the search for food, the trip for water from the spring a few minutes away. Warding off predators, hiding from people. Since before I can remember, this has been my life.

_In fact,_ I think. _I can't remember anything else_. The first memory I have, being four and building a makeshift ladder to climb out of the hole (much smaller back then), that was already my life. I had already lived that life. For forever, for my whole-

And then, the doubts are whooshed away in a great wind. I pull out the mushrooms, setting them on a flat piece of bark and getting to slicing them. Afterward, I push them into an old pot I found a few years ago, filled with boiling water over a small fire. As I wait for them to cook, I sip some water from a roughly hewn cup. The cold is biting and it startles my mind to clarity.

Sixteen years. Sixteen years of solitude. I try to remember why I'm here, why I've lived here for so long.

_Because of the danger_, a voice tells me. _The danger of the Timelords. They're corrupt, they'll exploit you, it's not safe in the Citadel._

_ But how do I __**know**__? _I ask myself. _How do I __**know**__ it's dangerous? Why did I come out here? Why have I-_

I take another sip of water, the rough edge of the cup scratching my lip. I've managed to avoid contact with people for all these years: Gallifreyans and Timelords, though the latter rarely come out this far from the Citadel. Some poor Gallifreyans will wander onto the mountain, mostly anemic and starving, weeping from their poverty and pain. When I was eleven, one of them, an old man, came close the my cave and fell, just beside the entrance. For hours, I cowered in the dark corner, clutching my knife. The next day, after a sleepless night, I found the old man's stiff and lifeless body in it's same place. _He didn't regenerate_, I remember thinking. It was bizarre, but so sad. To keep predators from eating at the body, I dragged it into a clearing (it was horribly light, like a bird) and piled dry wood on it before lighting it aflame. The pyre burned for a day, a smoking, horrible reminder of something I didn't understand.

The mushrooms are done and I fish them out, quickly grabbing the scalding fungi and tossing them onto the bark. After a minute or two, I eat a small meal, content with the dirt-like mushrooms and the seed-full berries and the dry nuts. This is my life, and I'm okay.

The silence gets to me sometimes. The ringing of nothing, the buzz of emptiness. The flutterwings occasionally sing, tossing melodies bright to each other across tree branches. But sometimes, I can go months without ever saying a word. I press a hand to my throat, scared one day I'll find it simply left me from disuse.

I shake my head free from these thoughts. The sky is dark now, the cave almost entirely black except for the dim glow of the fire. I go to the bathroom (in a hollowed out trunk I made when I was little, thank you very much), then slip off my clothes and into bed. As soon as I close my eyes, dreams come to me.

Or _dream_. Singular.

It's always the same. A whirling tunnel of golden light, rushing past be in orange and yellow and swirls of beauty that I don't understand. At the end of the tunnel, a man. Older, with eyes that have seen generation, in a suit. His face is so strange, but so, _so_ familiar. A face I've lived with since forever. He's reaching out for me, fear playing across his face violently. He's calling something, this man, something so important and desperate. I reach back to him, wanting to know. Wanting to know.

"Doctor!" I yell back, somehow knowing that's his name, his impossible name. A name that I don't understand, but a name that I bind myself to. "Doctor!" But the light, the beautiful, damned light pulls me back, pulling my away from the Doctor. I scream, fighting against the invisible force, trying to reach him. But I never do. I never do.

I jack-knife into a sitting position, sweaty and awake. The scratchy, crunchy mattress of leaves underneath me does nothing to keep me comfortable, let alone warm. I shiver absently, running my hands through the bird's nest that is my hair. I lay back down, curling my knees up into my chest, trying to fall back asleep. As I stand on the shore of unconsciousness, I suddenly jerk back awake, gasping for breath.

Noise. There's a noise.

A voice. A true voice.

I scramble out of my bed, trying to be as silent as possible. Above me, right above the cave, there's a voice. Several voices. Stomping feet, calling names. The rustle of clothes, the sound of mechanics. I don't even know, I don't understand.

But I feel a horrible rush of fear.


	3. Chapter 2 - Taken

**I don't own Doctor Who.**

CHAPTER 2

_Taken_

"Where are we, Quassus?" One voice asked.

"Perdition." Another voice, apparently Quassus, answered. "The Master's estate is just a few clicks south." A peal of coughing broke up the heavy silence.

"There aren't any runaways this far out. No one's _that_ desperate."

"We have our orders, Corin-"

"We haven't seen a runaway in a week. Please, let's just-" And then his foot fell through the hole, kicking blindly in the air and cutting off all light.

"_Woah_!" Corin yelled. "What the-" Then the roof gave in, coming down in a great crash of dirt and roots and Timelord. After a moment, when the dust settled, I saw the confused form of Corin. He was lanky and pale, with sweeping brown hair. Half-buried in the dirt, he slowly dug himself out. Holding my breath, I pulled myself deeper into the shadow of my corner.

"Are you alright?" At the lip of the crater, another Timelord, stocky with short blonde hair, stood, apparently Quassus.

"No! _Damn it_," Corin swore. "What made this _hole_? Seriously, I mean-"

Eye contact.

"Hey... Hey, Quassus. We got one!' I gasp, tightening my grip on my knife. "Get the chains!" Corin yells up to Quassus, drawing a long, shining knife.

"Come here." Corin steps slowly towards me, his eyes glinting menacingly. "Let's not be any trouble, okay? Come on, good... _Boy_? Humph." The contempt in his voice makes my face burn with anger, but the fear that comes from his approaching hands overpowers the fear.

"Stay away." My voice feels hoarse and detached. Like another person's. "Stay away from me."

"Come on, boy." He's a few feet away now. "Let's not be any trouble, mhm? Come on." A foot away, his hands reaching, closing in.

My hand reacts before my mind, swiping at his face. I feel the flesh of his ear split, blood squirting my in the face. He screams and pulls back, his hand clutching his bloody ear. In that instant, I kick him in the stomach and, when he double over, stab him in back, my knife burying itself in his flesh.

_What are you doing_? I scream at myself, panic flooding over me. _This is madness, what is_-

I scramble up the rubble, grabbing the lip of the crater and pulling myself up the ledge. The night air is frigid on my almost-naked skin, but I ignore my body. I can only think one thing: _run_.

I take one step and, _bam_! Something hard and heavy hits my head and I crumple to the ground. The world is warped, the noise muted. My delirious eyes pick up a flash of golden light coming from the pit, something glorious and familiar. I try to push myself up onto my knees, but I fall back to the earth. I feel my heartbeats in my head, a wound pumping out a steady trickle of blood.

After a moment, Quassus and another Timelord crawl out of the pit. The new Timelord is thin, deathly so, with haggard eyes and tousled black hair.

"Alright," The new Timelord says, his voice halting and deep. "Whose the fucking asshole who made me use a regeneration, huh?" He comes over to me, delivering a swift kick to my stomach. I groan inwardly and curl up into myself, pathetic. "Huh? Don't like it so much now, do you- Agh." The Timelord screws up his mouth for a moment, thinking. "New teeth. Damn it.

_He regenerated_, A voice tells me. _It's still the other one. Corin. Just a new face_.

"Who are you?" Quassus asks, coming over and kneeling by my head. When I don't answer, he nudges my head with the toe of his boot, painfully close to my wound. "_Who_. _Are. You? _Why are you in the woods, this far out? Huh? Are you a Timelord? What chapter are you? Huh?" I remain silent, looking at the quiet delicacies of the grass beneath me and feeling terribly cold.

"Let me-" Corin says, readjusting his grip on his knife.

"No." Quassus commands, holding up a staying hand. "They can get the info out of him in the Citadel. Come on, let's just throw him in the cage and get going." Corin mutters mutinously, but complies. He and Quassus grab hold of my arms and legs, lifting me up easily. I struggle, but I'm so disoriented, it does not good. They roughly toss me into an iron cage, built into an archaic wagon pulled by something like a horse.

_What's a horse_? I blearily ask myself, bringing a smile to my own face. My bare skin, harshly abused by the horrible cold, scrapes against the old wood of the cage floor.

Quassus and Corin sit in the front, urging the strange beast into a trot. Through the grate of the cage, I can feel the burning of Corin's glare on my skin.

"He's barely anything." He mutters darkly. "Just a twig of a boy. A little pretty, I suppose." A pause. "Let me have hi-"

"_No_."

"But-"

"_No_." Quassus' voice is as firm as stone. "You know they don't like the prisoners used before they get them." Corin grumbles about regenerating and not getting any sympathy, later becoming taciturn, plunging the rickety ride down the mountain into silence.

_Prisoner_. The word never came into my life before; it had no use. Now, it is who I am. I manage to gather the strength to flip onto my other side, to watch Perdition disappear in the distance, gloriously red even in the darkness of night. The aching of my head calls me into a restless, uneasy sleep. Even the dear Doctor can't reach me here.


	4. Chapter 3 - Wonder

**I don't own Doctor Who.**

CHAPTER 3

_Wonder_

The bump ride from Mount Perdition to the Citadel takes us through several slums. The Timelord soldiers (or, as I like to call them, _insufferable pigheads_) are at best indifferent to the horrible cries of the Gallifreyans that rise up as we ride by. I can see it all through the bars of my cage. Starving people, bone thin. Children with bellies distended from malnutrition. Hair falling out, teeth rotting in mouths. The houses lining the road are made of scrap metal; torn from the bodies of war TARDISes and Dalek ships. Mud has found its way into every crevice, taking the luster out of the once proud metal and turning the people into earth-colored monsters.

As our rickety wagon makes its way down the dirt road, Gallifreyans of all sorts run out to greet us with their sufferings. They grab out wagon by the frames, shaking it with their starving arms, begging for food, water, _anything_. There are so many of them, they stop our passage quite often. That is, until the soldiers are aggravated enough to step down form the wagon and beat back the mob.

Besides the ever present weight of poverty, the trip is acceptably horrid. I have tried to escape, but there is no use. I am given a bucket to relieve myself in and am never let out of my steel-locked cage. The soldiers feed me something between mud and grain, a slop of a yellowish tint with little to no flavor. I contemplated starving myself, but decided that I did not have the willpower and stuff my face every time the slop is delivered into my bowl. I have been given the honor of a threadbare blanket, to cover myself from the chilly nights and the curious eyes of passerbys.

Because of the fear of the soldiers, not many approach the wagon and ask of my crime. When a few brave souls do, the soldiers simply say, "Desertion", and the individuals will hobble away, nodding sadly. I fight the urge to scream at them, telling them I never had anything to desert in the first place. But no, that would do no good. At night, while the soldiers are snoring obnoxiously in their little compartment, children will creep up to our wagon, daring each other to get closer and, if they have true bravery, to poke me with a stick as I feign slumber. I should get angry at them, scream and curse at them as they run away in fear in the cold night. But I don't. They are simply starving, who am I to take away the pleasure of a dying child? Who knows, maybe they can brag to their friends about how they actually _touched_ a convict.

After a week of horrendous travel, we have reached the edge of the Citadel. Through my cage, I can just make out the shimmering repaired dome of the great city. I know it was once so much more glorious than it's present, darkened, dying state.

I don't know _how_ I know. I just do.

Surrounding the city is one huge shanty town, where the Gallifreyans that are closest to being Timelords live. Those who has _lineages_ and keep the names of their families. Still, they hardly live better than those in the country; killing rats for food, dumping out waste buckets into the streets, starving slowly without anyone to care about you. As we hobble down the main street, Corin gives me a signature sneer and asks Quassus, "Why are we taking him in? We could make good money, selling him on the streets."

"For the last time, Corin, _shut you fucking mouth_!" To the everlasting credit of Soldier Quassus, he hasn't given in to a single one of Corin's request for me. For that, I can forgive him. But I swear, if I ever get out of this cage (and I've promised myself I will), I'll kill Corin. I will.

After an hour of driving, the slums fade away and we get to the main gate of the Citadel. It's tall, supporting the famous dome. The walls are thick and painted a heart red, inlaid with gold in strange, intricate designs. Once they were beautiful, but now they are simply sad in their unwashed, faded state.

"State your purpose!" A guard shouts down to us from his posts, a little balcony by the huge doors.

"Quassus and Corin. Desertion squad. We've got a live one!" Quassus shouts up.

The guard disappears for a second. Then, he returns and yells back, "You're good. Head in."

With a tremendous groan, the doors heave open. Slowly, we make our way into the infamous Citadel, the clops of the hooves of the beast that pulls our wagon echoing loudly.

Almost instantly, there is a huge roar of people, of words and sentences all shouted out in a glorious cacophony. People ambled down the streets in blazing robes, some deep red, others vibrant purple. Cyans and golds and emerald burned into my eyes and I tried to cover them, but the allure is too strong. The air was laden with scents, impregnated by the heavy weight of cooked meat, feces, perfume, and something dust and old. Stretching towards the amber sky, glimmering buildings shot towards the heavens in a reflective supernova. I peeked up at them through my cage, and could only stare in awe. The greatness of it, it was overwhelming.

Of course, there were pale tints of the war across the people. Rubble built up in the sides of streets, pushed into dark corners of alleys. The people, their plush robes worn thin in their chests and ragged along the edge. And some kind of anger, a frustration that bubbled beneath the surface. In the glances of Timelords, sanctimonious and proud. In the bent head of passersby.

As we labor toward the center of the Citadel, the people begin to disappear. Silence replaces the roar of life and stillness fell over the road. Corin and Quassus remained silent. Towering over us was the main spire of the city, stretching into the sky and piercing the dome, holding it in place with a wheel mechanism. Its shadow was as cold as death.

We stopped at the foot of the spire, its base was gargantuan and could not be seen around. A door slide open and three soldiers came out to greet us.

"What do we have?" One asked gruffly.

"A deserter." Corin informed him angrily, barely containing his sneer. "Cost me a regeneration."

"Hmph." The soldier grunted, giving me a heavy glare. His eyes were brown and dark. "We'll see he pays his dues." They took the keys from a silent Quassus and opened up my cage. Hands roughly grabbed me and pulled at my limbs, and I fought to go free. I punched and kicked and, even when I felt the blows of a much stronger fist, I still fought back. It wasn't until the air scraped at my lungs and a fist shattered my nose that I stopped, sparks of pain glittering in my eyes. Warm blood trickled down my face and the rough hands returned, pulling me out of the cart and shoving me onto my feet.

"A fighter." A solider comments. "We'll beat that out of you in no time."


	5. Chapter 4 - Punish

**I don't own DW.**

CHAPTER 4

_Punish_

The soldiers takes me through the grand halls of the spire. The walls are gilded and elegant, shimmering with some inner light. My bloody face and weak body seem out of place. They take me to a room divided by bars like a cage, filled with raggedy people. They open the cage, toss me in, and leave me without a word.

Most of the other prisoners- I suppose I'll have to learn to call myself that. _Prisoner_- are old and raggedy. Their clothes might have been some other color, but now they were just gray. They melted into their skin. An old man hobbled close to me, his gray eyes wild and distant. He muttered nonsense, holding his hands imploringly out to me. They are knobby and veiny. I flinch away, scurrying back against the wall. The floor is cold and rough, so I draw my knees up against my chest. None of the other prisoners pay me any mind, they are too lost in their own troubles. Huddled into corners, murmuring prayers to false gods, darting eyes watching the doors. This is paranoia. And this is punishment.

I begin to lose track of time. Not really, I mean, I know I have spent two days in the prison. But it seems like the hours and minutes no longer linger, they no longer have meaning. I stay in my place, pressed against the cold wall. Once a day, a guard comes and refills the trough opposite me with a brown slop. The prisoners fight over, like pigs at feeding time. But I abstain, thinking I can starve myself. My limbs lose feeling, my eyes begin to dim. I notice the other prisoners are slowly dwindling, but I don't know what that means. My mind, it's a bit fuzzy. My sleep is fitful and unsatisfying. I dream of the Doctor, scared and desperate, once or twice. But nothing that brings relief.

_I'm afraid I can't save you_, I tell this imaginary Doctor. _I'm too busy dying_.

On the third day, the door of the cage opens up and a guard comes in. When I look up, I recognize the face. _Corin_. But I don't see Quassus, and that makes me fearful.

Corin's face is scarred with an ugly smile. His tired eyes rest angrily on me as he has, "Get up, whelp. Time for the slaughter." I blearily try to get to my feet. Too slow, apparently, for Corin roughly grabs me and yanks me out of the cell, into the hallway. The luminous light of the capitol building is deathly and I flinch away form it, only to be stopped by the rough hand of Corin. He drags me across the waxed floor and up a long flight of stairs. We meet a huge set of doors, which slowly open by themselves into a huge, dark room. The doors slam shut loudly behind us. It is lit by a long hung chandelier and sporadic candles. A long table, with Timelords dressed in crimson and gold robes sit grandly, their faces stern. Corin drags me before the table.

"And who is this?" A grand man sitting at the middle of the table. His voice is lazy, ancient, and contemptuous.

"Deserter." Corin's voice is accusatory with a trace of a snarl. Still, the table of elders only barely suppressed a sigh. The floor beneath my bare feet is wet, but I don't dare look down, I've turned into a statue. Fear of the unknown creeps into my stomach and makes my knees knock, my hands sweat.

"What is your name, child?" An old woman with bronze eyes asks. Her voice is papery and old. I open my mouth, but I don't answer.

"Speak, boy." The man says. "_Speak_!" He huffs with indignation. "Must be a Gallifreyan whelp."

"Rassilon." The woman murmured, but the man ignored her.

"_Are. You. Gallifreyan_?" Rassilon, the old man, spoke slowly, like he was speaking to a dumb child. "Timelord? What is your House?" He rubbed his temples. "Is the whelp mad, soldier?"

"Uhm, n-no, sir." Corin stammers, giving me a hearty glare. But I ignore him, instead focusing on the flickering light of the candles. My eyes lose focus of the rest of the room; it's just the dim glow of the candle.

Rassilon sighs. "I call for the execution of the prisoner on the basis of contempt and madness. Any objections?" The table of elders says nothing, only sighs as a whole. Rassilon looks to Corin. "You may execute him now." I don't look over at him, but I can feel the cruelty of Corin's smile in the air of the room. I hear him draw his sword, I hear the swish of the air, and I close my eyes, allowing myself to saw one last thing, one last prayer.

"Doctor."

"_Stop!_"

I open my eyes and Corin's blade is inches from my neck. Rassilon is standing, his eyes angry, powerful, and frightened.

"What." Rassilon's voice is like a knife. Precise. "What. Did. You. Say?"

"I-I..." I manage, my voice like sandpaper, clumsy as it finds its way out of my throat. "I-"

"_What did you say?!_"

"Doctor!" I squeak, rather embarrassingly, if one can be embarrassed before they are executed. "I said... Doctor."

The elders stare at me with wide eyes. All with fear. Corin is about as confused as I am, looking from me to Rassilon and back. Rassilon takes a deep breath and slowly walks around the table towards me. His robes make quiet sounds as they trail across the stone floor. He stopped before me and I could see every year he lived ingrained in his skin. Every wrinkle, every war, every moment. His eyes were dark as they looked from me to Corin.

"Your sword, soldier." He said to Corin. A little surprised, Corin hands it to Rassilon. Examining the fine blade in the dim light for a moment, Rassilon gives Corin a cautionary glance. Then, with the utmost precision, stabs Corin in the stomach.

I don't scream, only stumble back in fear and shock. Corin falls to his knees, mouth forming a surprised _O_ as the glow of regeneration warms his skin. But Rassilon grabs his head, placing his hands on each side of Corin's face. Looking deep into his eyes, Rassilon seems to _draw out_ the glow, the power of regeneration. The light flows from Corin's body into Rassilon. Gasping for breath, Corin struggles to free himself, but it's too late. His skin grays with death and, after a moment, Rassilon draws back his hands and Corin's lifeless body falls to the ground, a husk.

I don't know what to do, I don't know what to think. All I do is stand there, revolted at the body that once lived and moved and breathed, but will now only decay. Rassilon looks over at me, his eyes faintly glowing with Corin's regenerations.

"Now," Rassilon's voice is even and amiable. "You will be cooperative, yes, boy?"

I nod shakily.

"Good. Now, where did you here that name?"

"N-Name?"

Calmly, Rassilon steps towards me. I flinch away, but he doesn't make a move. When I relax, he raises his hand and strikes me, hard across the face. The pain is electric. I can feel the shape of a hand burning into my face as I cower, clutching my cheek.

"Yes. The name, the name you just spoke." He grabs my shoulder and forces me to stand tall, facing him. "The name, boy. Where did you here it?"

"I don't- I don't know." I manage. "I don't know, it was just a dream, just a dream, please." And now I've started crying. "Please, I'm sorry, it was just a dream, I don't know I don't know where it came from, I'm sorry." I fall on my knees and, with shaky hands, I clutch Rassilon's robes. The wetness of the floor is disorienting, especially when I realize it's blood. The blood of the other prisoners, executed mercilessly. "Please, don't kill me, please."

Rassilon scoffs and roughly pulls his robes form my grasp. "What is your name, boy?"

I wipe my nose on my arm. "Mal. Malos Lupos... _S-Sir_."

"Malos... Gallifreyan." His voice holds a taste of disgust. He looks back at the table of elders, all of whom are still staring at me, shocked. Rolling his eyes, he claps his hands and the door opens, two guards running in. They gasp at Corin's body, curled around the blade, laying in a pool of his own blood.

"This felon just murdered this brave soldier. Take him to the cages while we deliberate his fate."

"Deliberate?" One of the soldiers says, incredulous.

Rassilon slowly turns to the soldier, cocking an eyebrow. "Soldier?" There's no response, the soldiers only rush forward and grab me by my arms, pulling me roughly to my feet and begin dragging me away.

"Wait." Rassilon shouts. The soldiers stop. "Put him in Cell Four."

A gasp goes up from the elders. "Rassilon." The Timelady whispers, but Rassilon ignores her.

"Go." He commands the soldiers, and they listen. They drag me back out into the hallway, the horribly bright hallway, where the light allows me to see the blood staining my knees and my hands. It sickens me, the whole thing, and I think I might vomit. A few times, I think I might pass out, but the rough treatment of the soldiers keeps me awake. We reach a small door, round and dark. One of them waves their hand over a scanner beside the door. After a moment, the door slowly opens. We step in, the door closes, and we descend quickly. It's a bit disorienting, knowing that you're falling deeper and deeper into the earth.

After a moment, we stop and the doors open once more. The hallway we step out into is dark and dank. There's the smell of urine and hopelessness in the air that makes my hair stand on end. Dim, green lanterns cast strange light on the old, moldy stone. The cells are walled in, not barred. Each cell is made of old, decrepit metal, like it hasn't been opened in milenias.

Contrary to its name, Cell Four is _not_ the fourth cell. It is the last cell, in the heart of the prison, the deepest, darkest corner beneath the Citadel. The cell seems to grow into the stony wall, like the cell was always there, only roughly hewn from the rock. One soldier presses his hand against the cell. A pause, then a sickly blue glow. A rectangle of the cell slides open, and the soldiers push me in.

"Hey, buddy!" One calls mockingly. "Looks like you have a new friend."

"Wait." I call to them. "Please!" I run to the door. They both laugh as the door shuts and I slam into it. I am alone in this dimly lit cell. But underneath the sound of my own panting breaths, I hear another pair of lungs breathing.

_Not alone_.

Slowly, I turn to face the far corner, the darkest corner of the cell. It seems like all the shadows are reaching into it, holding something back. My heart is racing, the blood pounding in my ears. There is silence, humming in the darkness.

Then, a figure leaps up and races for me, screaming like a primal beast. I scream and stumble away, pushing myself against the opposite corner, covering my eyes in terror. There's the sound of chains and gasping. After a moment, I allow myself to pull back my hands and look up at the figure standing above me.

It is a man, blond and dirty beyond belief. His face is sunken and sallow, his eyes are swirling with madness. A straight-jacket keeps him contained, chained to his original corner. The chain is just long enough for him to lean in close to me, grinning evilly with drool running down his chin.

"Well. Well. Well." His voice is raspy and disjointed, like he has had no need of it for generations. "What... Have we _here_?"


	6. Chapter 5 - Demented

**I don't own DW. Sorry for the long wait, guys, I'm really, REALLY stressed out right now.**

CHAPTER 5

_Demented_

"Please." I choke out. "P-Please, no, I'm-"

"SHUT UP!" He shouts. My voice dies off in a whimper. Panting desperately, the man paces across the cell, the chain clinking madly. I don't know what to do, I don't, I just shut my eyes and pretend that everything is going to melt away into the crimson forests of Mount Perdition. I hear the mad man, banging on the wall. _BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM._ And again. And again. Over and over, four notes of noise punctuated by a thick silence. My hands find their way to covering my ears, my face is clenched so tight, my muscles feel like they could snap. My blood has hardened, there's nothing but tension left and I don't, I can't deal with it, I can't.

The man stops pounding on the wall. "What's your name?" The man's voice is deep, husky, and primal.

"Please-"

"YOUR NAME!"

"MAL!" I shout back, terrified. "MY NAME IS _MAL_!" He's silent, panting like a beast. Madness wrapped around his body like the heat of a summer day, hazy and all around. I slowly open my eyes, and find the man sitting in his corner again, eyes dancing wildly across the floor. His eyes were so dark, so stormy. Covered in grime and sweat, the once-white of his straight jacket was a diseased yellow.

"Why are you here?" He mutters. When I stammer, he yells. "WHY ARE YOU HERE? Why-WHY DID THEY SEND YOU?!" He's up again, pacing madly, his eyes so wide, the whites glow in the dim light. "_Why_?"

"I-I knew a name." I managed, wiping the mucus from my nose. The air is frigid and I pull my arms close around my chest, shaking. "A name that I-I didn't, I wasn't suppose to know. And they-"

"What name?" His voice, a knife.

I look up at the man, his face genuinely curious, like a cat. A cat about to pounce. But before I can make up with a more convenient lie, my mouth says, "Doctor."

His face shatters slowly, pieces drifting off in space. His smile twitches into a frown. I curl up again, fearing another explosion. But it doesn't come. The madman is silent, quiet. I look over at him, and he's facing his corner, shrouded in the darkness. Faintly, I can hear him tapping the floor: _Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap_.

Four beats, over and over. But the silence in penetrating. The stone of the cell is damp, the air is dank. The light flickers, painting the room a ghastly green. All there is in the sound of hurried breathing, the four beats, and the buzz of silence. And it's aching.

This is what I am now. I am a prisoner among madness. The madman doesn't speak to me, only sometimes yells incoherently. But mostly we stay in out separate corners, him to shattered to hurt me and me too terrified to defend myself. There is begrudging silence, quiet apathy. Everyday, one of the guards opens the door and places two trays in front of us with gray slop. It has no flavor, it just keeps us alive. For a while, I starve myself, not because I want to die. But because there's nothing else to do. But after a week, I become so weak that they're able to force feed me, and so, I give into this whole _living_ thing.

Once or twice, Rassilon comes into the cell, jarring in his glorious crimson and gold that manages to look proud in the prison light. He would stand there, domineering, and ask me how I knew that name, that stupid, meaningless name. But I could give no answer, none. So Rassilon would command the guard to hit me, over and over. And still no answer. Just a stupid boy with a bleeding face and a broken body.

Today, after a rousing round of beatings, Rassilon looks over at the guard and says, "Bring him," before striding out of the room. I barely have time to taste the metallic tang of my blood on my lips when the guard takes my arm and roughly drags me behind the President, my bare legs scrapping the hard ground. Into the elevator, where the purity of the light is excruciating. I can't understand reality for a moment, with Rassilon so close. I'm distinctly aware of the rags of my clothes, of the stench of my filth. I also am aware of the fact that I no longer care.

Rassilon guides us into one of the upper floors of the Capitol building. It is dark, quiet. Smothering.

_Yes_, I thought. _Night time. Yes, when the sun, the sun goes down. The sun... The sun, the warmth, the light, I-_

We're standing in a room. A bare room, with one light on, shining down on... On... A circle. A circle of shining metal raised up on legs. And in the circle is... Is...

"The Untempered Schism." I murmur, feeling like the edges of my body are being pull closer and closer into its swirling, destructive, beautiful storm.

"You know of it?" Rassilon sounds surprised.

"No." I lie, because I do. I know that this is the Space-Time continuum, the rip in the fabric of space. I know that the sight should terrify me, drive me mad, make me run, or inspire me. I know this, and I don't know how. No one told me. I've never heard of it before._ How do I know this_?

"This... This is time. And space." Rassilon approaches the Schism, back towards me. I wonder what he feels when he looks into the swirling mass. I look inward, trying to gauge my own reaction. Nothing. A warm feeling welling up from my heart, but... Nothing.

"Bring the boy here." Rassilon says. The guard complies, hesitantly pulling me closer to the Schism. "Boy, do you know what would happen if I... _Pushed _you in here?" He doesn't wait for me to answer. "Exposed to the time vortex, your very existence would be torn apart and obliterated within milliseconds."

The effect of those words is jarring, it takes me a couple moments. "_Push_?" I repeat slowly. "Push? You just said... _Push_?"

"Yes."

I can't decide whether to be terrified or amused. It seems so simple, pushing a problem into the time vortex and watching it bleed away from existence. To know nothing will ever bring it back, that it never even existed.

I smother a smile.

"That name you spoke." Rassilon murmurs. "_Doctor_. Hmm... That name is the name of a Renegade. You know what that means?" I don't respond. "It means that he broke the rules. He broke the rules we made to protect our world. And he got away with it." Rassilon turns back to me, his eyes glowing darkly. "The rest of the world has forgotten. Or repressed. Buried the memory of that cursed bastard deep inside. But- But _you_-" He steps closer to me, his monumental height towering over me.

"You... _Remember_? Why? Why would you remember someone like _him_? _How_?"

"I-I..." I stammer. "I don't know. Maybe some things are worth remembering, even the bad ones." But I see the Doctor's face, his face imploring me, begging me, and I don't see evil. I don't see someone who hurts others. I see goodness.

Rassilon's face is empty and distant. He steps around me and I can already feel it, already know it. I don't care. I've forgotten how to care. I've forgotten everything since forever, and even the Doctor's face is starting to blur into my subconsciousness. I look into the Schism, the Schism that makes me feel nothing, and I wonder what it will feel like: oblivion.

"I really don't know how I found out about that name." I murmur.

"Oh, I believe you." Rassilon says. "I truly do. But that name..." He sighs. "That name has destroyed universes. Galaxies."

"I understand." My voice is small, swallowed up by the Schism. There's a pause, and then I feel a great push on my shoulders. I tumble towards the Schism and close my eyes.

The explosion following is exhilarating. Light breaking into feathery fractals that fly across the world. Fire, burning white, reaches out everywhere. And the sound, oh, the sound. The blessed, horrible ringing shout of time resounds everywhere. I am thrown back instantly, slamming into the wall with a sickening crack before the light overtakes me. The earth shakes, the air screams. It's horrifying and enthralling.

When the dust settles and the light fades and the ringing in my ears fade, I slowly open my eyes. Blood oozes down from my forehead, the dirt stinging the wound. The room is gone, the Schism: gone. A jagged hole, smoking around the edges, opens up to the dark sky. There is nothing but destruction, the walls have collapsed, the floor is eaten up. I can't see the soldier, or Rassilon. But beside my, the edge of a scarlet robe, dusty in the desolation, peaks out from under a pile of rubble. I struggle to my feet, my knees shaking. My raggedy shit is torn, revealing most of my stomach. Everything is bloody and sore. I take an uneasy step forward and find myself on a behemoth of a drop-off. Thousands and thousands of miles of pure air are under me. The wind is cold and cuts into my skin.

_What am I_? I ask myself, looking over the sight of my destruction. I cannot answer.


End file.
